Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

Comments

bodyswap trash fill 5a/6

[(Anonymous)]

[I swear this time... I know where I'm going and now I also know how long it'll take to get there. one more part.]

Breaking the towel rod off the wall was useless—worse than useless, if this guy who wasn’t Steve got suspicious. Sam… broke the towel rod off the wall. He didn’t know what else to do, after last night. He’d tried to leave the room a couple times and Steve had shot down his excuses. There wasn’t an ice machine in this shithole. Like hell was Sam taking a walk to clear his head alone with an unknown threat at large, Steve’d go with him. They’d get a new phone and contact Fury tomorrow, would Sam relax? And then he’d rolled up behind Sam in the bed, wound both arms around his waist, shoved his thigh between Sam’s legs, and gone to sleep like that.

Sam hadn’t gotten any sleep. Even if he hadn’t been waiting for a dick up his ass or a hand around his throat in the night, even if he hadn’t still been sore and fucking terrified, he couldn’t have slept. It was too damn hot. Steve didn’t seem to feel it. He stayed plastered to Sam’s back as sweat dampened the sheet between them and slicked their skin. Sam was pretty sure he was actually asleep, not faking, but he didn’t roll away and his grip didn’t slacken any. Sam wedged a hand between Steve’s arms and his own side and tried to lever some room to get free. Nothing doing.

Nothing doing was something Steve said sometimes, even though he tried not to. He’d done it in front of Barnes once and Barnes laughed. It had been old-fashioned in the forties, too, Steve admitted, and he’d been hopeful because Barnes remembered that.

If this wasn’t Steve, then where—

And it wasn’t. Trapped in the dark with his back to the guy, just the weird rasp in Steve’s lungs and the throb all up and down his own spine, the memory of the faint Bronx accent on “kid” snagging something in his memory, Sam knew it wasn’t. He left his hand stuck against his ribs, and every time he drifted off he startled awake again. The lights in the bar across the street stayed on all night. The thrum of music from the beach faded sometime around 3am. Sam’s vision blurred and his eyes scratched and he watched the blue neon sheen on the window fade as the sun got close to the horizon and drowned it out.

Steve woke up maybe two hours after the music died. He hadn’t loosened his grip once yet. He ground his morning wood against Sam’s ass.

“I gotta shower,” Sam said, voice hoarse from last night. He slid his hand out from under Steve’s arm to grab it and tug. “We’re gross, man. You’re a hotbox and I don’t think it got below 80 all night.”

“Sure thing.” He pressed his forehead to the nape of Sam’s neck, and undid his arms but dropped his hands to Sam’s hips.

“I’m serious—” Sam tried to sit up, but Steve’s hands didn’t budge. Sam hadn’t, ever, been held so motionless by so little actual contact, but he couldn’t shift his spine, his center of gravity, with Steve pinning him on his side. And Steve wouldn’t have.

Sam settled for moving what he could, his shoulders and neck, twisting to look at Steve. When he could see him, it was Steve. Blue eyes creased with sleep, freckles showing on his shoulder where he’d burned yesterday. “I can’t go again yet,” Sam said, calm, like it was no big deal. It sounded fake to him, hollow.

“No, you don’t have to. Just lemme finish.” He dragged Sam closer. They both had shorts on and it was just Steve’s dick rubbing along the cleft of his ass, but it ached and it drove home how sore Sam was still, that this movement jarred him so badly. Steve shoved against him slowly, fingers spreading to dig into the cheeks of Sam’s ass. Sam pressed the back of his fist against his mouth to keep from objecting again. This wasn’t Steve and he wasn’t going to stop, but he was going to do worse than “not stop” if Sam blew his cover for him.

It was slow and it took too long. Sam had been ignoring the ache all night, but it was all he could think about by the time Steve sped up and groaned into the back of his neck. His hands went slack and Sam stood up before he could grab on again. “Shower,” he said. He was sure he sounded fake, now. He got in the shower anyway and rinsed the sweat off.

The door opened and Sam almost reached for the shower rod, which curved and looked set into the wall better than the towel rod; it wasn’t going to help. But beyond the curtain Steve just ran the sink. “You got a razor?” he asked.

If I had a razor I’d have turned it into a weapon by now, Sam thought. They’d planned on buying toiletries once they got here and then they’d switched hotels instead. “Sorry.”

Steve made a noncommittal noise and the door closed behind him.

When Sam got out of the shower, the towel Steve had run under the sink and used to mop himself off was crumpled on the ground. Even less ideal. Steve knew the rod wasn’t all that loose. Sam grit his teeth and broke the rod free from the wall. The tile crunched. One end of the rod splintered. Steve was unarmed and it was still a knife at a gunfight. Not even that. Sam could use a knife. He’d never used a fucking towel rod.

“Sorry,” he said, when he went back into the bedroom, tossing the rod on top of the dresser. The room was too small for that to put it out of reach. “Snapped right off. I’ll pay for it.”

“Or we won’t tell them.” Steve was dressed. Really not taking a shower of his own, then. Fuck. It would’ve been a good time to make a break for it without resorting to getting picked up by the face and thrown across a room. Fucking super soldiers, he thought, even though that hadn’t been Barnes’s fault, and even though he’d probably cry with relief if Barnes showed up right now.

“Steve,” he said. “I still—we still have to go back.”

“Sure,” Steve said, as easily as he’d said Sam didn’t have to. “Let’s grab some breakfast and a burner.”

“I’m not real hungry.”

“So? You gotta eat.” His eyes were too narrow again. “You wanted a phone pretty bad last night.”

Sam nodded. “It’ll be good to talk to Natasha.” It seemed like the safest thing to say. He didn’t move toward the towel rod yet.

Steve opened the door and stood there, waiting for Sam to walk out first. “Breakfast,” he said. “Then a burner.”

Steve was staring right at him. If Sam couldn’t incapacitate him, he was better off not doing anything.

He walked past Steve and a wave of gooseflesh crept down his arms. Steve was right behind him, almost beside him, but if he looked the other way so he couldn’t see Steve from the corner of his eye, he could hear how wrong Steve’s stride was, too short and sharp, almost a stomp.